The Comfy Chair
by allthingsdecent
Summary: By request: What if Cuddy went to check on House at the end of Merry Little Christmas, not Wilson?


**So this birthday fic (or "birth defect" as autocorrect calls it) is for my girl Marlene, aka survivachick, aka one of my favorite humans on the planet. Marlene writes these really awesome, in depth reviews of my fics (complete with hot and story-appropriate gifs!) and keeps me sane by generally viewing the world the exact same way I do. Her prompt was: What if Cuddy went to see House at the end of Merry Little Christmas instead of James "Yes, I'm a Doctor But I'll Just Leave My Best Friend in a Pool of His Own Vomit" Wilson. So this is what I cooked up. It's minor, obviously. But I hope you all like it, especially you, chick. xoxo**

Christmas Eve at Princeton Plainsboro generally meant Cuddy was working late, alongside every Jewish, Muslim, atheist, and "work is my religion" employee she could find.

She usually tried to make the evening fun, throwing a pizza party one year and hiring a mariachi band the next, but tonight she was in no mood for merriment.

"Have you heard from him yet?" she asked Wilson.

"No, he still hasn't picked up," he replied.

House also hadn't responded to two phone calls and three urgent pages from her.

"That's it," Cuddy said. "I'm going to check on him."

"I was about to do that myself," Wilson offered.

"With all due respect, I think you're the last person he wants to see right now," Cuddy said.

"Like he's _dying_ to see you?"

"At least I didn't rat him out to Tritter," she countered.

He sighed.

"Fair enough," he said.

"I'm going. I'll call you once I've confirmed that he's still breathing."

"Bless you."

On the car ride over to House's, she got increasingly worried about him. He had the prospect of real jail time hanging over him ominously. His best friend had betrayed him, or at least he saw that way. He had gone from a rapid detox to a rapid retox. And it was Christmas Eve, which brought out melancholia even in the most normally equanimous people.

She pressed her foot on the gas, running yellow lights (but not red ones—even anxious Cuddy was a law-abider.)

Then, despite her 3-inch heels, she ran to his apartment, knocking loudly on the door.

"House! It's me!" she said.

No answer.

"House, open up! I'm serious. No games. I'm worried about you."

Still no answer.

She realized she hadn't quite prepared for this. Wilson, no doubt, had a spare key. She, on the other hand…didn't.

But on a lark, she tried the doorknob. It opened.

She stepped into House's apartment tentatively, feeling a bit like a burglar.

"House?" she yelled. "I just broke in. So if you're doing something illegal or X-rated, I suggest that you. . ."

And that was when she saw him.

He was lying on the floor, motionless, an empty vial of pills beside him. She also noticed a drained bottle of bourbon on the table.

"House!" she said, rushing up to him.

There was a small pool of vomit on the floor and more that crusted the edges of his mouth. But he was breathing. He opened his eyes widely, awake, but not really seeing her.

"Shit," she said out loud. She looked at the pills: Mr. Zebalusky's oxycodone.

"House, wake up," she said, shaking his shoulders.

He continued to stare at her vacantly.

She slapped his cheeks, trying to rouse him.

Still nothing. She went into the kitchen, got a glass of water and threw it on his face.

This finally woke him up. He shook his head rather violently, like a Golden Retriever emerging from a swim. Water splattered on her.

"Whatdya do that for?" he said.

"House, you passed out."

He suddenly became aware of his surroundings.

"I'm on the floor," he said, looking around. Then he saw the vomit. "You vomited."

"House, look at me." She sensed he was drifting out of consciousness again. "Is this all you took?" She waved the pills in his face. When he didn't answer, she said, more loudly: "House, _are these the only pills you took_?"

He nodded, but his head began to loll back again. She was starting to wish she had let Wilson come instead.

"Alright, let's get you up," she said.

She stood and, using all her strength, pulled him up from the floor. He was just awake enough to help a little, although his bum leg wasn't helping matters.

She half carried, half dragged him to the bathroom. He sat on the tile floor, watching as she turned the cold water on in the shower.

She pulled off his socks and sneakers, and then, with great difficulty, managed to take off his jeans.

"This is a really good dream," House said, with an unfocused smile.

He was wearing a tee-shirt and boxers now, which was the best she was going to do.

"C'mon buddy, get in," she said. Once again, she pulled him to his feet. He staggered backwards, but managed to stand.

Still, she realized there was no way he was getting in that shower without her.

"Shit," she said, removing her own blazer and heels but keeping the rest of her clothing on.

The water was extremely cold. This mission was going to be uncomfortable at best, and dangerous at worst, but she didn't see that she had much choice in the matter.

She got in the shower, steering clear of the direct water, and then pulled him under the cold stream.

"Ahhhhhhhhhh!" he screamed. "It's too cooooold!"

"It's supposed to be cold."

She was still holding him up, but he seemed to be doing a better job of sustaining his own weight, so she tried to let go. Big mistake. He lurched forward, falling onto her.

Then, with his arms draped around her, he decided it was an excellent time to start kissing and fondling her—his hands on her breasts, his mouth artlessly mashed against hers.

"House, no!" she shouted, jumping out of the way. With that, he fell forward, tried to catch himself on the shower rod, which broke off in his hand.

"Oops," he said.

She somehow managed to catch him before he crashed to the shower floor, but he was too heavy and they both slid down together.

Now they were sitting side by side on the shower tiles, completely drenched.

"I can see your nipples," he said.

"I can see yours, too," she said, idly.

He looked down.

"Huh," he said.

They sat like that for a few minutes, as the water continued to rain down on them.

Finally, she looked at him out of the corner of her eyes.

"You going to pass out again?"

"I don't think so."

"Good."

She stood up, turned the water off, got out of the shower and began to towel herself off.

House was still sitting in the shower, awake but not quite alert, watching her. She tossed him a towel, but it just sat in his lap, like he wasn't sure what to do with it.

She rolled her eyes a bit, then approached him. She toweled his hair and tried to dry the rest of him, too, but the tee-shirt was so wet, it clung to him like a second skin. She yanked it off—he raised his hands over his head; his version of being helpful—then she dried his torso. She briefly looked down at his soaked boxers, considered it, and thought, "Naaaa."

"C'mon," she said, taking his hands. "Can you step out?"

He did, more unsteady because of his leg than because of how high he was.

He was standing on his own now, shirtless, shivering, wrapped in the towel. She didn't look much better. She was almost as wet as he was and—due to a variety of social constraints that almost seemed ridiculous at this point—she had kept her clothing on. She wore the towel over her shoulders like a blanket.

She led him to the bedroom and put him in bed.

Then she found a pair of pajama bottoms in the top drawer and handed them to him.

"Here, put these on," she said. He immediately began to pull off his boxers. "Under the covers, House!" she scolded, shielding her eyes.

So tonight would now go down in history as the night House almost died, made a pass at her, and showed her his giant cock for the second time in 15 years. (And who said Jews had no fun on Christmas?)

Finally, he was under the covers, relatively dry, and ready for bed.

"Get some sleep," she said, smoothing his still-wet hair.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"You're welcome."

He started to drift off right away.

"You're nice," he said, docilely.

"And don't you forget it," she said, looking at him.

She left his room and changed into a pair of sweats and a tee-shirt she had found in his drawer. The tee-shirt was black and had some sort of elaborate royal crest design. The clothes were swimming on her, but at least they were dry.

She sat down, pulled out her phone and called Wilson.

"Is he okay?" Wilson said.

"He is now. But it's a good thing I came over," she whispered. "I found him passed out on the floor."

"Oh my God. On what?"

"Booze and pills, his favorite combination."

"Where'd he get the Vicodin from?"

"It wasn't Vicodin. It was. . .oxycodone."

There was a pause as Wilson processed this.

"Mr. Zebalusky's oxycodone."

"Yeah. . ."

"That piece of shit."

"Wilson," she said, shocked. "He's an addict."

"And a taker and a user with zero respect for the sanctity of human life."

"That's a little harsh."

"I'm angry. You said he was going to be okay, right? So I'm allowed to be angry."

"He needs our help, Wilson. Not our anger."

"All we ever do is help," Wilson grumbled. Then he sighed. "Thanks for looking after him, Cuddy. You're a real friend."

"My aching biceps agree," she said, rubbing her arms.

"Huh?"

"Nevermind. Goodnight Wilson."

"Goodnight, Cuddy."

Her plan was to sit in his chair for an hour or so, read one of his medical texts—he had a bookshelf full of them, most that were rare or out of print—check on him a couple of times, then go home.

That plan must've backfired, because several hours later, she woke to the feel of sunlight on her neck and the sound of House's voice.

"Hey, warden," he said. "You're sleeping on the job."

Her eyes fluttered open.

He was standing there, still wearing the pajama bottoms she had found last night, plus a new, dry tee-shirt. He had huge bags under his eyes and, frankly, still looked a little rough.

"I. . .fell asleep," she murmured.

"Picked up on that," he said.

She looked down at the chair, almost accusingly. "This is the comfiest chair I've ever sat in."

"Glad you like it."

She inspected him.'

"How do you feel?"

"Like a baby seal," he said. Then, when she didn't respond, he said: "They get clubbed to death."

"I got it," she said.

She stood up, did a deep yoga stretch. He smiled at her.

"Nice sweats," he said.

"I hope you don't mind…"

"I don't," he said, eyeing her. "They look good on you." Then he limped into the kitchen. "Coffee?"

"That actually sounds good," she said.

As he poured a mug, she squinted at him skeptically.

"You seem in pretty good spirits for a guy who might be going to jail in a few days."

"That's because I made a decision," he said, handing her the mug. Somehow, even in his hungover state, he remembered that she liked a little milk, no sugar.

"What kind of decision?"

"I'm going to take the deal," he said.

She sighed, relieved.

"Good," she said. "I'm proud of you."

"Wilson left me with very little choice."

"House, you almost ODed last night. Rehab is the right place for you."

"Unless they can cure my leg, it's actually not," he said. Then he looked at the floor. "But I'll try."

She was about to give him the whole speech about rehab having no chance of working unless he really believed in it, but she restrained herself. After all, him taking the deal was such a rare swallowing of pride, so wildly out of character, she didn't want to press her luck.

"I should probably go," she said. She put her shoes back on.

"Sweats and heels," she said, looking down. "It sounds like some awful theme party."

He gave a half smile.

"Here," he said. He had put her still-wet clothing in a plastic bag. "When I fantasized about us showering together, I had something completely different in mind," he said, sheepishly.

She raised her eyebrows, and gave a light chuckle.

There was an awkward silence.

"Good luck with Tritter," she said finally.

"Thanks."

When she got to the door, he said, "Cuddy?"

She turned to look at him.

He scratched his beard.

"Um . . . no rush giving me back the sweats."

"Okay . . . thanks," she said.

###

Five days later, he showed up in her office.

"Gregory House, reporting for you-kept-my-ass-out-of-jail duty," he said, grinning at her. "Point me in the right direction. The clinic, the ER, the maintenance department. If you want me to stir the gravy in the cafeteria, today, I am your bitch. Use me as you please. "

And he bowed deeply.

She looked up, vaguely annoyed, from her paperwork.

"Go back to your office, House," she said.

"What do you mean?" he said. "You saved me from doing hard time. The least I can do is a wipe a few asses in your honor….wait, that came out wrong."

"Go away, House. I don't want to look at you right now," she said, testily.

He folded his arms, surprised.

"Is this because I faked the whole rehab thing?"

"Yes, that's part of it," she said.

"And because I'm not sufficiently humbled by this experience?"

"Actually, you seem cockier than ever," she said. "Gregory House, the invincible one."

"What did you think, Cuddy? That your kindness and sacrifice was going to somehow transform me? Make me a better man?"

She looked at him, defiantly.

"Something like that," she said.

"Now you sound like Cameron," he said.

"Fuck you," she said.

"Whoa, touchy," he said, holding up his hand. Then he squinted at her. "You're really that mad at me? Just because I beat the system?"

"You didn't beat the system, House. I _allowed _you to beat it. I lied for you. I perjured myself in a court of law—for you. I don't even run red lights!"

"And that's why I'm here. To express my gratitude. So tell me what to do. Where should I go?"

"To hell," she said, looking back down at her paperwork.

"Sweet burn," he said, hoping for a smile that never came.

######

That evening, there was a knock on Cuddy's door.

When she opened it, there was a man in a blue workshirt holding a clipboard. Behind him, a truck was being unloaded onto the street.

"Where do want it?" he said, gesturing to the chair that two burly workmen were carrying up her walkway.

"I. . .didn't order that chair," Cuddy said.

"We were told to deliver it to 158 Chestnut Street. Dr. Lisa Cuddy. That you?"

"Yes, it's me but. . . ."

Then she looked closer and saw that it was the chair from House's apartment. The comfiest chair she had ever slept on in her life.

"I don't want it," she said.

"It's free," the guy said, puzzled. "Dr. Gregory House paid for the delivery charges. Said it was a gift."

"I know. I don't want it. Take it back."

The guy narrowed his eyes.

"It's a nice chair," he said. "Real nice."

"And I don't want it. Bring it back to Dr. House."

The guy shrugged.

"Suit yourself," he said.

Then he whistled loudly at the two guys to get their attention.

"She says she doesn't want it," he said. "Load it back up."

Then he looked sympathetically at Cuddy.

"Diamonds probably would've been better, huh?" he said, with a wink.

#####

Ninety minutes later, another knock on her door.

This time it was House, looking ansty.

She sighed, opened it.

"In our culture, it's considered rude to reject gifts," he said. "Actually, in all cultures it's considered rude to reject gifts. If one ape gives another ape a banana, it's. . ."

"I had no place to put it," she said.

House gave her a look. That was a rather obvious lie. Her house had lots of nice furniture but it was hardly overstuffed. There were four places in the living room alone where she could've put the chair.

"You won't accept my chair because that means accepting me," he said. "You really need to stop confusing me with inanimate objects."

"I don't want your chair, House."

"So what do you want? Anything. I'll do it."

"I want. . .you to stop doing drugs."

"Anything but that…" he said, trying to be funny.

"Goodnight House."

"C'mon Cuddy. How do I fix this? Tell me."

She folded her arms.

"Well, you can start by thanking me, at the very least."

"That's what my $5,000 chair was. Or was that not a big enough hint that you have my undying gratitude?"

"You gave me a chair because you can't say it. You can't just say thank you."

"Thank you," he said, looking at her.

"Not enough," she said.

"C'mon, I'm not a mind reader, Cuddy!"

"How bout using actual words? How bout: Thank you for risking life and limb to get me sober. Thank you for committing a crime on my behalf. And thank you for being a. . . really good boss."

He continued to look at her.

"Thank you for risking life and limb to get me sober. Thank you for committing a crime on my behalf," he said. "And . . .you know you're much more than boss to me, Cuddy."

She looked back at him, slightly defiantly. "What am I then?" she said.

"You're my friend, my protector, and my . . .occasional shower mate."

She laughed, despite herself.

"Occasional?" she said, teasingly.

"A guy can hope, right?" he said.

Finally, she gave him a smile—the real kind that always made him melt a little.

"Hug it out?" he said, holding out his arms.

"Okay," she said, with a playful roll of her eyes.

"But no funny stuff," he said, holding her. "I know how handsy you can get."

She laughed, inhaling his scent.

"You feel good," he said, holding her a little closer.

"So do you," she said.

Her mouth pressed up against his neck. Her lips were wet and soft against his skin—not really a kiss, but not _not_ a kiss either.

"Oh God," he groaned and he lifted her chin and kissed her mouth, so different from the haphazard kiss in the shower. This one was sensual and skillful and left her almost desperate for more.

"I guess you better come in," she said.

They kissed again, and again and the kisses grew deeper and Cuddy's breaths came out in gasps and tiny moans—and it was clear that they would be doing much more than just kissing tonight.

"A comfy chair would've come in really handy right about now," he whispered in her ear.

She giggled.

"But the bed will have to do," he said—and he scooped her up and carried her to the bedroom.

THE END


End file.
